I’m not sure why I thought college would be different. Why, upon taking my first steps on the University of Kentucky’s campus, that all that irritating awkwardness and my tendency toward social blunders would magically disappear, just because I was officially an adult. As if the aura of UK’s enormous library, distinguished Administration Building, and award-winning Donovan Hall would rub off on me, filling me with a sense of dignity and purpose. Naturally, not long after arriving, I realized that the library was impossible to navigate, the Administration Building burned down, and Donovan Hall really had nasty showers.

I trudged out of Donovan’s set of fingerprint-smeared glass doors at 5:25, wrapping my light coat around me. In front of the dorm, several smokers sat on the large concrete platforms surrounding the dorm’s columns. I passed them, paying careful attention to wind-strewn debris on the sidewalk, so as not to trip and make a complete spectacle. I made my way to where the sidewalk met the road. Eric had given me specific instructions to wait there until he picked me up at 5:30. I stood there awkwardly, feeling sophomoric (ironic for a second-year student) and watching car after car swish past me without slowing down. Why couldn’t he just park and call me to meet him like a normal person? I checked my watch. 5:29. I felt like a little kid waiting at the bus stop, clutching her Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.

The little kid feeling was something I felt was a step in the wrong direction. College was all about maturity, right? I was supposed to become an independent, self-sufficient, graceful member of society, not some self-conscious girl anxiously waiting on a guy to drive her somewhere. Nevermind that they just sort of glossed over the parking situation at the university when I’d come for my visit. Oh, parking? Well, they have buses that come by and drive you all over campus, so you don’t have to walk! Yeah. Well, they forgot to mention that after the rush of classes was over, those buses made their rounds every half-hour at most. And that sometimes the people riding in that enclosed space were a hell of a lot scarier than the people you’d see if you simply walked. I found that out the hard way.

5:31. Directly to my left, a long-forgotten shrub stretched and flailed its limbs in the wind. Apparently, it once had a spherical sort of shape to it, but too many weeks sans haircut had passed and now the branches poked out over the sidewalk, scratching and smacking anyone who happened to stroll past or who stood on the sidewalk to wait for a ride. I briefly wondered why the university could afford to build million-dollar science buildings and parking structures but evidently couldn’t afford to hire a gardener to hack off a few limbs every couple of weeks.

What color did Eric say his car was? Green? Blue? I fervently wished I had more than a flea-sized attention span. My mother had always complained about it, and despite my best efforts to change, I remained as spacey as ever. Case in point: just last week, while in the midst of a particular fond daydream, I had been rammed into by a cyclist who felt the sidewalk was a more appropriate place to ride than the provided bike route.  

Plus, I hated talking on the phone. It provided far too many opportunities for distraction. I had an annoying habit of “zoning out” while others were talking. It’s not that I don’t care, usually I do, but some things just can’t be helped… especially when The Simpsons are on.

The wind was fierce. That’s another thing I felt I’d been misled about – hurricane-force gales whipping through the campus. Why hadn’t any upperclassmen giving a tour thought to tell us poor undergrads to invest in a full-size golf umbrella that wouldn’t blow inside out every five minutes? Or tell us not to even bother fixing our hair, because it would just look like stale hay by the time we got to class anyway? That’s what real campus life was all about.

5:38. Eric was officially eight minutes late. I shouldn’t have been surprised, because after all, he is a guy – and I had no room to talk, because after all, I’ve never been on time in my life. But I became more agitated, standing out on the sidewalk alone. I felt exposed, like everyone was staring. Like a hooker waiting for her next customer – shifting from side to side, hands on hips, eyes warily scanning every car that approached.

A dark green car drew near, slowing down carefully and pulling up right beside me. Hunter green, or maybe forest green. I’m no art major, I don’t know the finer nuances of the color wheel. The windows were dark-tinted, probably darker than legal. The sun was in my eyes, and I lifted my hands to shade them, trying to get a better look. The driver appeared to be male, dressed in a wrinkled white T-shirt, but his face was obscured by a wide tinted strip running across the top of the windshield. I made another quick watch check – 5:43 – and resolutely adjusted my purse strap over my shoulder. I marched the few short feet over to the passenger door and pulled on the handle, which was unlocked. I shoved the door open against a sudden gale of wind and flung myself into the car.

“Well, it’s about damn time. Now we’re gonna be late, and my hair looks like shit because I’ve had to stand out here in a tornado for 20 minutes,” I bitched to my driver. Unzipping my purse, I searched vainly for my Estee Lauder pressed powder and a comb. Eric didn’t respond. “Really. And what’s up with those bushes? They’re growing into monsters. They’ll be growing out into the road here pretty soon.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed that we seemed to be completely stationary. I turned to Eric, about to demand to know why we weren’t moving.

Oh, shit. Now I see why.

A strange young boy sat silently in the driver’s seat. His eyes were wide and white, his knuckles discolored from gripping the black steering wheel. We stared at each other; he at me with horror, I at him with utter humiliation and shock.

“Uh,” I said slowly, my thoughts frantically racing to offer up some sort of reasonable excuse. My mind offered up a blank slate. Oh, screw reasonable, I’ve just got to say something. “Sorry about that.”

He did not respond, seemingly unable to move a single muscle in his skinny frame. He was frozen, like stone. I patted my hair self-consciously. Apparently the wind had given it a Medusa-like appearance. I shoved the door open and leaped out, muttering another half-hearted apology behind me as I walked away. Not really knowing how else to gracefully recover from such an indignity (I’m unaware of proper protocol after accidental carjackings) I walked back to my original spot and resumed my position. He’ll be gone in a minute, I reasoned.

Unfortunately, his car didn’t move, not an inch. I cringed, knowing he must be staring at me through that tinted glass. Why the hell isn’t he moving? I looked to the stop sign, four cars ahead of where I stood. I grimaced, fighting the urge to smack my forehead with my hand like they do in those overacted sitcoms.

Some idiot wanted to make a left-hand turn in five o’clock rush hour traffic. The cars were backed up and my new friend had nowhere to go. I thought long and hard for a moment as I studied the sky, the ground, the squirrel in the tree next to me, anything but that stupid green car. I had nightmarish visions of 11 o’clock news headlines like Teenage Boy Escapes After Assault, or at the very least, a little nugget in the Kernel Crime Report stating March 25, 5:43 PM: Attempted carjacking investigated at 100 Huguelet Drive. Female suspect.

I had a small, internal debate about walking away or hiding behind the bushes. I then decided that neither sounded like a particularly good idea. Besides, mature people don’t run. Or hide. They smile, accept their mistake, and move on. Right?

So instead of leaving, I became vastly intrigued with the intricacies of bark patterns on a nearby tree.

Eventually, the cars moved. I watched from the corner of my eye as the green car finally, thankfully, turned onto Rose and drove off. I cleared my throat and straightened up, surveying my surroundings. When I was certain that there was no one remaining who witnessed the incident, I relaxed. Inner poise, I thought, silently chanting Bridget Jones’ mantra. I neatly pulled down the hem of my jacket and carefully crossed my arms, trying to look casual.

A bleating horn startled me. I suspiciously looked over from the corner of my eye, just to make sure. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw a silver, not green, Mitsubishi had finally rolled up next to me. The passenger side window whirred and lowered, and Eric’s maniacal grin peeked out at me. I smiled and started to walk over. Dignity recovered, I thought. Mission accomplished.

“HOW MUCH?” he shouted, loud enough for anyone within a 50-foot radius to hear. In my peripheral vision I noticed several pedestrians turning to look at me questioningly. Seething, I skulked over to the car and slid in. Any hope of a graceful exit had fled.

Well, if nothing else, college was teaching me to deal with my gaffes. And that’s what it’s all about – right?